


First, We Breathe

by GalaxyAqua



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Despair (Dangan Ronpa), Conversations, Declarations Of Love, Kissing, M/M, Self-Indulgent, a little bit of death talk but that's just kiyo, rantaro's adhd is strong in this one, the inherent eroticism of lipstick prints and love incompetency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 00:08:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20898389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyAqua/pseuds/GalaxyAqua
Summary: “Your lipstick is all over my face,” Rantaro mock complains, swiping his finger across the red marks on his cheeks. They sit pretty on his cheekbones, complementing the flush of his skin as Kiyo merely raises an eyebrow at him, looking calm in every aspect, despite the accusatory tone. Rantaro frowns at him. “...you feel no remorse whatsoever, do you?”In this situation,Kiyo thinks,how in the world could I?





	First, We Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> this year has been a trainwreck and a half, please just let me have this. it's self-care, baby! <3

“Kiyo! What _is _all of this?”

Korekiyo suppresses a smirk as Rantaro comes pattering back into their room, messily dressed and perfectly indignant.

It wouldn’t do well for his image to start giggling like a child, but the sight of him completely _covered _in lip prints and disgruntled by it — is almost just ridiculous enough to make him want to.

He’s always astounded by the ways Rantaro makes him want to laugh.

He has never been one to.

Never been allowed to, in perfect honesty (told his laugh was abrasive and awkward and ugly, _be quiet, Korekiyo, be calm, you mustn’t laugh, you mustn’t indulge in such childish whims_) but sometimes, when they’re together, he loses himself in such a giddiness that he doesn’t know what else he can do.

“Your lipstick is all over my face,” Rantaro mock complains, swiping his finger across the red marks on his cheeks. They sit pretty on his cheekbones, complementing the flush of his skin as Kiyo merely raises an eyebrow at him, looking calm in every aspect, despite the accusatory tone. Rantaro frowns at him. “How did you even do this? One layer of lipstick isn’t enough to… it wouldn’t transfer that many times. I know how makeup works, y’know.”

The logic of this fundamentally makes sense, but Kiyo hasn’t exactly been subtle last night, consumed by the urge to paint him red.

His gaze lingers on the prints that trail down Rantaro’s throat, messy and in varying shades of faintness. Beautiful.

“I reapplied.” He says, simply.

“You — you reapplied,” Rantaro repeats slowly. Quite perplexed. “When? While we were…?” The cogs in his head seem to turn, but he still comes up empty. “Okay, _when_? I didn’t see you reapply.”

“Ah, well. How unfortunate. I suppose it will remain one of life’s many mysteries, then,” Kiyo replies, situating his mask gently on his face so he can hide the way his lips curl into a smile.

He loves to tease people, loves observing the reactions it brings, and it comes so easy here.

“You’re a dick, sometimes.” Rantaro tells him decidedly. He’s examining the prints on his forearm, and Kiyo bites his tongue a little, wondering if he had perhaps gone a touch overboard with the lipstick, but for such a sight, he can hardly regret it. “Look, it’s everywhere! I have to take a shower now.”

That also does not _help _Kiyo’s avid mind, but he knows not to follow the thoughts.

If he had his way, he’d want those pretty hands firm on him right now, pressing him against the bathroom tiles, clouded by a veil of steam, and his lips, warm, soft, _anywhere, everywhere_— but no_, _he cannot submit to that vulnerability of wanting something so easily. He has always wanted too much.

He is demand in a presence, always _wanting _things.

“Oh, no, not a shower,” Kiyo says, gasping instead. His hand cups over his mouth, as if scandalized. “That’s terrible news.”

“I know, right?” Rantaro plays along.

“The very thought is devastating,” Kiyo continues, ever so dramatic. Ever so thrilled to be. “Of all the punishments you could possibly incur, you have to go and take a shower… how can life be so cruel?”

“Really, Kiyo, this is the worst,” Rantaro laments, equally dramatically. “I’ll have to take my clothes off, and get wet… and I don’t want to… all I wanna do is lie in the sun and be dry. That’s it. That’s my entire goal in life.”

Kiyo makes an amused noise, not quite _laughter_, but something bridging on heightened nerves and fondness. It’s something. “You sound like my cat.”

“Your cat doesn’t talk.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I hope your cat doesn’t talk.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say, Rantaro.”

”I’m allowed to say it,” He replies, eyes narrowing slightly. Scrutinizing. “Besides, I know her. All she would do is trash talk me behind my back.”

“Oh, she most certainly does. We have riveting conversations about you all the time.”

“You talk about me,” he says. “With your cat.”

“Yes, often, among other subjects,” and Kiyo is not at all ashamed to admit that this is true.

There are few who are willing to sit through his deep musings and complex discussions on the glorious wonders of humanity, and Hecatoncheires the Japanese Bobtail cat is one of them. Even if she is a little antsy around visitors.

“You know,” Kiyo adds, fingers resting delicately on the cusp of his chin. “She is actually quite fond of you. She stares at you from her cat tower when you’re not looking.”

“What?” Rantaro’s voice is genuinely hopeful, hesitantly surprised. “No way.”

“She does,” he insists.

“Well, that’s adorable.”

“Indeed. Adorable is a good word for it, I think. After all, you both are, and tend to be,” Kiyo comments matter of factly.

“Ha ha, very funny,” is all Rantaro has to say to that. Kiyo wishes he didn’t dismiss it so quickly as a joke, because it isn’t, but before he can respond, Rantaro looks around, puzzled. “Wait a sec, I came here to do something, not get compared to your cat. What was I about to do again?”

“You were going to take a shower,” he reminds. “After gently reprimanding me for my… hard work.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right,” Rantaro blinks back into clarity, as if suddenly being aware of himself again. He hums thoughtfully. “Hm, hard work. Okay. Great reframe, Kiyo, but I still blame you for all of this, y’know. You’re not innocent.”

“But of course, and what a joy it is to be accused of such a marvellous thing!” Kiyo says airily, because he really cannot regret it even the slightest. “I take full responsibility for my actions and would have it no other way.”

Rantaro’s mouth twists into a frown. He seems to have noticed something else.

“Hey, this better not be waterproof. ‘Else I’ll definitely need you to help me out, and I don’t know if I can trust you not to do it again.” Softly, and sinfully oblivious, he murmurs, “Maybe I’ll be covered in your marks forever.”

— and, _alright_, Kiyo thinks. _You can stop that now. _

“Truly a travesty,” is what Kiyo actually says, holding it in. He knows Rantaro isn’t implying anything, it’s all in good humor, but Kiyo has a long history of taking everything seriously. “How ever will you recover?”

“Kiyo, look at me,” he says, and Kiyo is most certainly looking, gaze trailing across the lip prints on the smooth line of his collarbones, artfully placed. Thinks about the way his mouth travelled his skin. Thinks about doing it again. “What if I had to meet up with people today?”

“Mm, that would be a shame, I suppose. I imagine you’d cancel. You don’t like to exhibit yourself quite like that. Then I’d surmise your only option would be to spend the day with me again. Tragic.”

“Kiyo.” Rantaro says, rather sternly.

“What?” Kiyo responds, still not quite focused. “That is a fair deduction, and you know it.”

“... you feel no remorse whatsoever, do you?”

“In this situation, how can I?” He tucks his hair behind his ear though it falls back almost instantly, in a rush to frame his face. So his fingers interlace instead, voice dipping low, head tilting, finally meeting Rantaro’s eyes again. “You are so beautiful. There is nothing I’d rather wake up to than the sight of you, and I certainly can’t imagine anything that would make me happier than seeing every inch of your skin positively _decorated _with my kisses.”

“Wha— h-hey—” Rantaro’s composure seems to flicker out of existence for a moment, before he quickly rights himself and crosses his arms, looking as intimidating as someone might, covered in lip prints. “You sly bastard.”

“Thank you, my love.” He replies, closing his eyes and bowing his head graciously.

Oddly, he finds that he does not mind being insulted by Rantaro, because he never really _means _it, and not many have the same degree of comfortable playfulness with him — they’re always too afraid they’ll hurt him, or afraid they won’t hurt him enough.

“You’re the only person who would outright thank someone for calling them a bastard,” Rantaro comments, sounding fond. It’s a wonderful part of him, that fondness, and to Kiyo, it always offers such consolation.

He can hear Rantaro approaching, and is not afraid.

His senses know comfort with him, always searching for him when he’s in the room. There is no need to be afraid when he is the safest thing there is.

Kiyo smiles. Lifts a finger, to make a point. “Well, that is one of my more flattering titles, and among the ones favored by most… getting to hear about how you perceive me is one of the most joyous experiences, you know? I am joyed to be perceived by you, in every way.”

Laughter laces Rantaro’s words, all familiar and warm.

“Ha, I mean, everyone perceives, Kiyo. That’s kind of a thing.”

“Yes, and it is always so fascinating and wonderful to see the world through others’ eyes,” he muses delightedly. “But what I meant was that I enjoy being perceived by _you _specifically.”

“I — is that a compliment?”

“I suppose it must be,” Kiyo answers with a slightly wider smile forming behind his mask. “After all, you make me feel real. As though I am human. You have evidence of my existence, and I exist here with you. You make me want things again. You treat me like a person. Is that not beautiful?”

“You are a person, and deserve to be treated like one,” Rantaro’s voice is steady, calm like a lake. An affirmation. “And you’re always allowed to want things, Kiyo, you know that, right?”

“Of course,” Kiyo replies, as if it is that simple. “Of course, I know that.”

Gentle reassurances.

(The shadows behind his eyelids are speaking. The memory pulsates through him, deafening.

_Look at you, such a greedy little thing. Dear Korekiyo, you are so needy. You mustn’t be so needy all the time. You mustn’t talk back to me. I know what’s best for you. All you need to do is agree.)_

He feels the weight of the blankets shift beneath him but he doesn’t open his eyes just yet. He enjoys the feeling of anticipation, his nerves curling him inwards, relishes in the electric way it builds through him, holding him stock still to the futon, and does not fear the proximity.

(_Do you understand that? You must always listen to what I say. If you keep wanting so much, you will only ever be disappointed. Be happy with what you have. I have given you more than enough.)_

Refuses to fear the proximity.

He knows he is safe, even if his body does not always remember that.

“Kiyo.”

“Yes?”

“Open your eyes, you’re drifting again,” Rantaro says, and his eyes flutter open and everything — _everything_ — relaxes.

Korekiyo is astonished. He had not even realized how tense he had started to become until it had left him.

Rantaro isn’t so much concerned as he is accustomed to being in tune with Korekiyo’s emotions, knowing how he looks before he starts spiralling, and knowing to bring it to a close before it can happen. Prevention isn’t a cure, but it does help.

Exceedingly, Kiyo is grateful for it, because as much as he is open to the beauty of witnessing every possible human emotion, he doesn’t know how he’d feel personally if his associations froze when he got too close, or recoiled under gentleness or became driven to panic over seemingly ordinary occurrences.

He would find them exceedingly beautiful, of course, that is the undeniable truth of his being, but he is also far too afraid of what he is capable of; too afraid that in hurting someone dear to him, he would become a reflection of the ones that hurt him.

And he tries to find beauty in that, but it is more difficult to forgive himself than it is to forgive anyone else.

“For the record, I’m not really mad at you about the lipstick,” Rantaro offers after the silence stretches on a tad too long and Kiyo hasn’t moved. Only breathing, lost in his own head. “I hope you know that, too.”

“I do,” he answers in sincerity, fingers reaching up to delicately stroke his cheek. He admires his work in detail there. It had been a feat painting with his lips in the dark, and his mouth still feels a little swollen and parched from it but the finished piece is well worth it. “I do not mean to worry you. It is all under control. And you are so very beautiful like this… had any damage been dealt, I fear I am healed from it already. If I were to imagine it, I believe that if you were the last thing I saw on this earth, I think that I would die happy.”

The warmth that blooms beneath his fingers is satisfying, as is the way Rantaro almost shies away from his touch, embarrassed by the attention. His eyes certainly can’t meet his anymore, and Kiyo finds it nothing short of endearing.

“That’s a… statement.”

“Yes, it is. But a true one.” Kiyo is entranced by him, goads him back into looking at him, gently, gently. “If I could die in your arms, I would be impossibly happy.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be,” Rantaro says rather bluntly. Which is reasonable, yes, so Kiyo supposed he can dissolve the death conversation for the time being.

“I shall not, for my cat trusts nobody else to look after her, and I do enjoy having the opportunity to spend time with you in, let’s say, more physical matters, which I suppose would be slightly more difficult if I was dead.”

“I guess it would be, huh?”

He nods.

“A ghost could not have done what I did to you, nor would I have enjoyed it as much, being overtaken by the thrill of you is much more satisfying when I can touch you. Feel you on my skin, my lips against yours, and in every other place I can reach,” Kiyo says, partially factually and partially smugly — the way Rantaro reddens is so incredibly rewarding. “You are so beautiful, and you are beautiful with me.”

For someone with such a breezy, casual demeanor, one would assume Rantaro would be able to handle the depth of his comments, but it just so happens that he is much better at giving compliments than receiving them.

Rantaro laughs lightly, the tenderness of it sending sparks of joy deep into the cavern of Kiyo’s lungs, rendering him breathless.

“Geez, Kiyo… you’re so silly sometimes, you know that?”

It’s a distanced response. Playing things off comes more naturally to Rantaro than believing he’s actually worth the words presented to him, but Kiyo doesn’t lie about how good he is to him.

He cannot imagine possibly being more enamored with any other human being, and he does not know how to keep that sheer intensity of emotion from spilling out.

(Once, Kiyo forbade the word _love _from his vernacular, because nobody would use it correctly — himself included, as it always sounded far too insubstantial. As if his definition and the literal definition and everyone else’s definition did not quite reconcile.

It was all wrong. Everyone was wrong. Nobody knew love. Nobody did it right. Everyone who thought they knew it was wrong.

He would only say it in ways that never felt good enough. He never felt good enough. But now, he knows _something _about love, and it isn’t something he can describe. He is drunk on that feeling. Words can’t do justice to it, but _love _is a beautiful one that might shy close.)

“I’m not trying to be silly.” He says, and that’s all it takes for the rest of his feelings to follow in release. Not for the first time, he melts into it, allows it to flow from him freely. Unabashed, confessing, “I am so in love with you that I do not know how to describe it gently. It encompasses me. I am so thoroughly consumed by it that even if my heart was torn from my chest, the rest of me would continue loving you just as well. I am so far gone that I think I’ve reincarnated whilst still being alive just to love you, over and over again.”

Rantaro groans at that, jerking his head away as red spreads to the tips of his ears and he has to hide his face in his hands. He is most adorable when he’s flustered to this point, far beyond anything his composure can ever truly save him from.

“Oi. You— you can’t just say things like that.”

His voice is muffled, and edges on a whine. It would be, had he not spent years biting back childishness he couldn’t afford. Kiyo wishes he could be less strict with himself, wishes he would let himself feel more openly, but he thinks Rantaro might have forgotten emotional freedom is a concept he is entitled to.

That much, Kiyo understands, so he does not pressure the point. Only admires him, as he is, ardently.

Rantaro peers out from behind his hands, and he repeats — as though Kiyo has already forgotten what he said, as though Kiyo doesn’t hang onto his every word, wanting to learn him inside out. “You can’t just go and say things like that, you know.”

“And why would that be?”

“You— listen. You just— you can’t. You can’t.”

_Can’t feel this way, feel this strongly about me. _

Kiyo understands. Doesn’t pressure the point.

It is still enchanting how oblivious he is to how _much _Korekiyo utterly adores him. He is so very delighted to be able to stir such responses from him, regardless of the insecurity that comes with it.

“I most definitely can,” he replies, “And I did. You should know that I do love to indulge in dramatics from time to time, but I am entirely sincere when I say that being with you is healing to me. In more ways than one. And I love you so much it’s humiliating,” an unmistakable burning takes to his cheeks at this confession, of all things. “But that humiliation is another beautifully human aspect of it that I have chosen to embrace wholeheartedly.”

“I—” Rantaro takes his hand, runs his thumb over his knuckles, the cool metal of his rings rolling against his skin. “— I think you’re ridiculous. What am I meant to say to that?” Fondly, he murmurs, “This is ridiculous.”

“Perhaps,” he replies, “but I am not trying to be. I am in love with love, and infinitely more in love with you.”

Instead of responding, Rantaro kisses the top of his hand, kisses the lines of scars too deep to fully heal, and Korekiyo stares, dazed and brimming with clarity all at once.

He leaves a mark there, lipstick only really visible due to the alabaster nature of Kiyo’s skin. Faint and reddish, it serves as a brand, but a pleasant one, and Kiyo can’t help but trace the familiar curve of his mouth as he smiles down at it, hints of color still smudged on his lips. Against any ability to stop it, Kiyo feels his tongue go dry, warmth settling in his features as he observes.

“How cunning,” are the only words he can manage.

It is as if the action has startled him awake, too, and now he is overtly aware of the fact that the height of his affection is sitting beside him, visibly covered in the evidence of his kisses from last night, and looking insanely attractive as he glances back up at him through his pretty lashes.

Instead of something more profound, Rantaro grins, and whispers, “Gotcha.”

It shouldn’t have been anything profound, but Kiyo can’t help what that voice does to him.

Emotions have always been excessive with Korekiyo, even though many attempts have been made to keep them at bay. He curls his free hand so tightly against his leg that his nails dig into his thigh. He cannot stop the shake in his voice.

“You got me,” he utters, all at once feeling as though he was out of place, out of control.

A breath is all he needs to calm himself, he’s learned to reign himself in more than enough times — he’s always been too much to handle, too hard to swallow, and isn’t that why he tries so desperately to be _loved? _

Isn’t that why, anyone who loves him would deserve nothing less than his everything, because who would _ever _truly love someone that’s been ruined from the start?

“You’re drifting again, babe, come back to me,” Rantaro says, and his safe hands tuck the other side of Kiyo’s hair behind his ear. Slowly, lovingly.

Korekiyo looks at him. Breathes.

“How,” he begins weakly, “can you always tell?”

“I know you,” Rantaro answers, and it holds such a characteristic vagueness to it that Kiyo would have laughed if only he learned how to.

“You do know me. You love me.” He acquiesces, and he can sense that there is hesitation in Rantaro’s movements as his hands move to rest on his shoulders. There’s something he’s not saying yet.

Perhaps this is what truly knowing somebody is like, Kiyo muses. Being aware of what they’re not saying, just as much as being aware of what they are — be that through words or gestures or otherwise.

Humanity is so complex, so dense with the glory of nuance, and learning it is an intimacy he is honored and privileged to partake in.

“What seems to be plaguing you, Rantaro?” He ventures. “You seem… discontented.”

Absent of his old uniform, Kiyo has no pendant to distract himself with in this foray into vulnerability, so he grasps the crystal of Rantaro’s necklace instead, finding no resistance.

“I don’t know,” Rantaro says.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“Not really,” he smiles, a placating gesture. “But talking isn't my strong suit anyway. Don’t worry, it’s not that big a deal.”

The scales are balancing rather precariously in this conversation, Kiyo thinks, but he is no longer a teenager, no longer as scared as he once was, and he wants — he _wants _to be more than lipstick prints and sadness and a trauma-broken love-stricken lover, _wants _to be equal in this relationship, _wants _to show as much love as he speaks tirelessly of, so he reaches.

Further than he thought he could, he reaches out for Rantaro, holds his necklace in the cradle of his palm, and tells him, “I don’t need you to be good at talking. I don’t need you to unravel your heart to me. But I would like you to know that I will hear you out. No matter how big or how small something may be. If it’s you, I want to hear it. I will always want to hear it.”

“Hey, slow down, Kiyo,” he says, and the wide eyes feel like a different kind of heartache. As if he didn’t know. As if he doesn’t know how much he loves him. The lengths he would go for him. How could he not know?

“Where is this coming from?” Rantaro asks.

The way his palm braces against his neck is erring on defensive, and Kiyo does not want to push him —_ yes he does, in a way, yes, he wants to know everything about Rantaro, he wants to drown in him, but not if it isn’t alright with him, never if it isn’t alright with him _— so he takes a different approach.

“Darling, the things I’d do for you are neverending.” Kiyo replies. “Don’t you know that? I want you, in every which way I possibly can. I love you so much it’s something I fear will pressure you terribly at times, but I cannot stop it. It is ravenous. As if I am drawn to you, body and soul.”

“Kiyo,” he says softly. Easily, with such consideration, “You don’t have to say things like that. Not to me. I won’t— I won’t love you any less if you don’t.”

The slightest frustration seeps into Kiyo’s expression, and he hopes that Rantaro can see the torment in his eyes if it will make him understand. The way he hovers on the word _love _is telling, too, but Kiyo has so many things he needs to convince Rantaro of that he doesn’t know where to start.

He settles with, “I am not saying things for the sake of saying things, Rantaro. I do not know how this works. I cannot figure out what is appropriate to say and what isn’t. All I know is how I feel, and if I am to be truthful, then I feel that you are afraid of what does not exist — the possibility that I see you for anyone but who you are, that I am inclined to placing people on a pedestal, so to speak, and have somehow deluded myself into falling in love with you.”

“That’s not—”

“I am not deluded with you. I will tell you this now,” Kiyo declares quite solemnly. “I love you, and I love you for you. Only you. I acknowledge your flaws, for flaws are so inherently and beautifully human, and I know that you are not perfect and you make odd leaps in logic like this that are at times difficult to follow, but I love you, anyway.”

“... does it bother you?” Rantaro asks, all drawn out, as if he still isn’t certain he wants to lay his thoughts out, but he has already taken that step into the water, so he keeps moving. “That I don’t… say _I love you_ like you do?”

_As easily. As deeply. As disastrously. _

The implications are there.

Kiyo blinks, and his head inclines, curious as a pigeon.

“Is that what this is about? It does not bother me at all.” He responds. “I know you love me. You show it all the time. Language is not always made up of words, nor is any emotion, love being included in such, and love languages are one of the countless theories which endeavor to explain it.”

“I know you know, but I don’t think you really _know_,” Rantaro says, and Kiyo wonders if he even knows what words he is spouting at this point, in an attempt to save himself from what is weighing on him. “I think you might have just fallen for the first person that was nice to you.”

“Well,” Kiyo thinks this is an incredibly odd assessment, and has no way to have softened his opinion— one which he is not afraid to mention. “That is the most ridiculous thing I have heard from you today.”

Rantaro doesn’t reply to that.

He examines even the silence, watches the way his chest rises and falls with every breath.

“Rantaro,” Kiyo sighs gently, makes another attempt to explain. “Trust that I know myself, yes? I am not entirely sure what you’re trying to convince me of, but if it’s that I love you any less than the way I described, then you are wrong. I love you excessively, and that is no exaggeration. Not because you are nice to me. It is because you are you. Tell me, truly,” his tone rises, wistful, “How could I ever stand a chance against you? Every human being is worthy of love, but if I am to be honest, I believe I was made to love you, for I cannot explain this in any other way. ”

Mumbling something unintelligibly, Rantaro goes to bury his face in the futon.

Amused, Kiyo asks, “Am I embarrassing you?”

“I think we’re well past that point.”

“I can try harder,” Kiyo offers. Then, keeps going without prompting, “Don’t you ever contemplate the possible repercussions of being embarrassed for an unending period of time? Most embarrassments are temporary, so would it wear off, I wonder? Would you begin to adapt — oh, that is the premise of exposure therapy, I suppose, but would it work for compliments, which are not an inherently distressing source of stimulation… how interesting…”

Somewhere amidst his ramble, Rantaro has reappeared, and is staring at him.

“Though perhaps it is a source of stress to you as an individual,” Kiyo surmises, staring back. “To be complimented… as a stressor… hmm, taking that into consideration, I suppose you are rather self-conscious as a person, aren’t you? You lack a great deal of self-confidence.”

“Hey, whoa, okay,” Rantaro says, somehow grinning, seeming to find the observation hilarious. “I think I got that part without you telling me.”

“Your blunt awareness and lack of will to do anything about it is incredible,” is Kiyo’s response. “Goodness, Rantaro, where _were _we? I seem to find tangents in everything you say.”

“Welp, beats me. I just like hearing you talk.”

“Ah, yes,” Kiyo deigns to utter, moving forward in lieu of answering a thought that is overwhelming in its honesty. “We were talking about how much I love you.”

“Um, no, we weren’t.” He says quickly.

“Yes, we were.”

“Oh yeah? Let me check my memory bank,” Rantaro blanks out for a second, an entire act, then barely hides his snicker as he blatantly lies, “Haha, nope. I don’t think we were!”

“Yes. We were.”

Almost songlike in manner, he answers, “I don’t think so, Kiyo.”

“We were. You are so stubborn, but I love that part about you, too. I don’t know how you do it. I don’t know how you make everything seem so easy. Being with you feels like breathing — it’s effortless, muscle memory.”

“Oh, that’s nice. I guess that’s love for you,” Rantaro says, loftily, as if the entire statement had nothing to do with him, and it would have been funny if he didn’t sound so shocked a few seconds later. “... wait, what?”

“... what is it?” Kiyo inquires hesitantly.

And Rantaro, well. Rantaro looks as though he’s just learnt something critical.

“... you. You were talking about me.”

“Um, yes,” Kiyo says, not quite following but willing to provide any answers he could, “I was talking about you. Is… is there an issue with what I’ve said?”

“You love me.” He announces, as though this is supposed to be news. “Like _that_.”

“I— I- Rantaro, what,” Kiyo stammers, “What are you talking about? That is quite literally what I have been saying this entire time. I have been saying so for months. Why do you look so surprised?”

“I just,” he shifts on the blanket, realization flitting across his features. He sinks a little further into the futon. “Oh. Ohhh.”

“_Rantaro_,” Kiyo almost hisses.

Rantaro looks alarmed, then nervous, and he doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands, so they just flutter, from his elbows to his necklace to the back of his neck to end up open in the air.

“Okay, in my defense, I didn’t think you meant anything by it!”

Kiyo finds this ludicrous.

“What part of ‘I love you so much I could die’ was there not to understand? Have I been unclear? I couldn't have phrased that any clearer if I tried...!”

“I thought you meant, like, the way you love people,” Rantaro flounders, fumbling, kneeling, rising in an attempt to defend himself, “Like, it was a general thing. You love a lot of things intensely, and I know you love me in that human way, the way you love everyone, and we’re dating and that’s like, romantic, but. I thought. I thought. You know. I thought it was like, a fun thing for you. Like, I was happy to be fun for you, I mean, I just thought. I just thought, y’know.”

“You did _not_ think,” Kiyo tells him curtly. “You did not think at all.”

“Haha,” Rantaro smiles sheepishly, “It looks like I didn’t, huh?”

“You.” Kiyo says, rubbing his temples. “You are so… s- beautiful.”

“You wanted to call me stupid just then, didn’t you,” he grins, sitting back on his heels.

“I would never. It is only unfathomable intelligence that could possibly misconstrue my intentions as anything other than they were. I was explicitly clear with my phrasing, and yet…” Kiyo trails off, a little put out.

“Hey, look, I love you too, Kiyo,” and Rantaro’s voice is still brimming with hesitance, but he sounds brighter somehow. Leaning in, as if to emphasize the point. “A lot. A lot more than I intended to! Or even know what to do with. I guess I was so caught up in that, y’know, I uh, I didn’t realize it wasn't just... you being you. You know. I didn't know.”

“Well, I have no inkling how you did not know, as that is simply what I have been communicating all this time to you. However,” Kiyo utters, irritatingly captivated by the infinite possibility of misunderstanding even where there should not be any in the first place. He lets it go. “It seems that the important point to make here is that the feeling is mutual, and it _is. _Indisputably mutual. Now that we have established this, let us please stop overthinking. I do enough of that for the both of us.”

Rantaro is back to laughing again, and it’s happier — he sounds freer. As though a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, even though they hadn’t yet truthfully established where they were at with each other, only that they needed to stop _questioning _it for the time being. Love is a word, and maybe that's all they need.

“Okay, fine, you win,” he raises his arms, surrendering. “I just— it’s not fair, y’know? You’re so much better with words than me. I wanna be able to make you feel the way I do, too.”

“Feel the way you do.” Kiyo blinks, feigning ignorance and flitting back into the spirit of teasing. “As in, flustered and confused beyond reason? Completely ignorant to the sheer magnitude of my affection?”

“D- don’t focus on that part!”

“Which part shall I focus on then, love? I will do absolutely anything you say.”

“You’re awful, Kiyo.”

“Hm? How so?”

“You— you’re always just saying these _things_.”

“Perhaps you are just easy to say things to,” Kiyo replies nonsensically, and Rantaro laughs again. Kiyo feels affection shoot through his veins, and tries to stifle it with a distraction. “By the way, you have still made no progress on that shower you were going to take, you know,” He reminds him.

“Oh, _yeah_, I forgot about that,” Rantaro says, coming into clarity… again. It is still as endearing as the first time. It always is. “I dunno, though. Maybe you’ve already convinced me of the alternative.”

Kindly blindsided, Kiyo discovers that he is truly lost as to what this could possibly refer to, seeing as Rantaro has completely skipped voicing a whole line of thought to reach this conclusion, so he can only eloquently reply, “What?”

“You know. You know.” He says, ever so helpfully.

“I…” Kiyo attempts to puzzle through this, brow furrowing. He is so positively _odd_ sometimes, with his ways of thinking and lack thereof. There is simply nothing more fascinating. “The only alternative I can think of for showering is… not showering, Rantaro.”

“Mmhm.”

“I… what does that mean. You- you can’t just say that and not follow it up with anything, what does that mean?”

Rantaro shrugs, looking coy. “I wonder.”

He does wonder, and in his wondering, he can feel the drag of the blanket as Rantaro slips closer, the warmth of his skin near enough to touch — and isn’t that far more distracting than the matter at hand.

It seems Rantaro knows that much, because he leans over Kiyo for a moment, caging him in with his arm, steady as he swings a leg over his hip. Straddles him.

And isn’t _that _far more distracting than the matter at hand.

“You were the one that said I wouldn’t go out looking like this, and so I guess it’s only natural that I take you up on your suggestion,” Rantaro takes mercy on him and starts to explain, but Kiyo wonders if he has the capacity to fully appreciate the explanation when he can feel the weight of him in his lap.

So close, and stained by the reminders of Kiyo’s lips on him, all marks of want. He wants, and he is terrified of how much, but Rantaro makes everything so easy.

“Oh,” is all Kiyo can say to that.

“Unless you had other commitments?”

_Please_, Kiyo thinks quite desperately, _if I had any commitments, they are well and truly gone now. _

He lifts his hand, the soft red lip print bared to the very culprit of it. Rantaro smiles, and it’s not — it’s not a _smirk_, really, but it is, and Kiyo is trying so hard not to faint dead away because of how attractive that is.

“Well, I can’t go out looking like this,” he utters, entirely overdramatic. It is just lipstick on his knuckles, easily washable. They both know it. Maybe that’s what is so enticing about this. Kiyo is submitting himself entirely to Rantaro’s whims, not that he would ever have refused in the first place. But the act was always enthralling. “I suppose I have no other option than to stay with you.”

“Good,” Rantaro says, and the way his hips rock, gentle, accidental, as he reaches to close the blinds, is the worst. Kiyo has been in a mild state of arousal since this conversation began, and he had been doing a remarkable job of hiding it, but that. That was dangerous.

(Not that he can really hide it when Rantaro’s sitting on his lap, but he has to pretend he has an image to maintain. Rantaro hasn’t commented on it either, though he clearly knows now, and that is both an undeserved blessing and a terrible curse.

It means that Kiyo cannot predict his actions, and has to endure the weight of wanting. It is growing more unbearable by the second. He wants his lips, his hands, his teeth, desire burning in his gut, the feeling of _wanting _becoming him.

He is starting to become desire itself.)

“Hey, come to think of it,” Rantaro says, morning dimmer behind the shutters. It casts muted shadows on him as he pulls his shirt over his head, revealing an expanse of lip-marked skin. He sits back onto Kiyo’s knees, a safer distance, but not safe from the yearning that follows. “Maybe I need to even the odds a little.”

Kiyo swallows, breath catching. “Even the odds…?”

“Just a little.”

“I don’t know what you—” it only takes a gentle prompt, the slightest nudge at the hem and the nod of his head, for Kiyo to start peeling his sweater off, and when he’s freed himself of it, he stops short. “— mean…”

Rantaro’s mouth is red, lipstick red, enticingly cherry red as he drags the lipstick tube across his lips, uncaring for the way color spills over. Wordlessly, he takes Kiyo’s hand, gently stains it with a kiss. Smiles when he pulls away and the mark remains.

Kiyo doesn’t know if he remembers how to breathe, anymore.

“Like I said,” Rantaro tells him. “Let’s even the odds.”

“Please, anything you want,” is all Kiyo can say to that.

Weakly, urgently.

“What do _you _want?” He asks, as if it isn’t obvious. As if Kiyo hasn’t been transparent from the very beginning, as if he hasn’t noticed those eyes on his mouth at every given opportunity.

The mask may conceal half his expression, but it’s not enough to hide everything. Not to Rantaro. Not to someone who knows how to read him like that.

“Make me yours. Kiss me whole again.”

“It’ll leave marks,” he replies, and his hand glides tender in the soft of his thighs.

“_Please do_,” Kiyo shivers, clasping Rantaro’s shoulders, slides forward, hooking his arms around the back of him, inviting him closer. “If you want me, I want to know. I need you to show me. I am invisible. Mark me like I’m places on a map you haven’t visited yet. Like I’m all yours. Let me be yours.”

Rantaro rocks into the cradle of his hips again, and kisses the slant of his cheekbones, fingers brushing the side of his mask.

“_Yes_, Kiyo,” he murmurs sweetly, “I love it when you make demands. Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

Kiyo takes his fingers, takes a moment to observe that the room is dark enough for his liking— and it is, Rantaro closed the blinds for a reason. He knows. He knows.

Kiyo takes his fingers, and uses them to take off his mask. Gently, gently.

“All I want is for you to kiss me,” he says.

Rantaro smiles again, rests his hand on Kiyo’s chin, tracing his lips with his thumb. “Where?”

Kiyo kisses the pad of his thumb, guides his hand to his neck, lets his fingers nestle into his hair.

“Anywhere you want. Anywhere.”

“Where do _you _want?”

“Everywhere,” he utters without even thinking about it, and Rantaro presses him flat against the futon. He sighs, feels the kisses trail down his neck, feels good and loved and human. “Darling, I don’t know how I’m supposed to ever want to be anywhere but in your arms, you know that?”

Rantaro smiles against his chest, kisses gentle and light. “I guess I’ll have to take you everywhere I go, then, hm?”

“_Please,”_ Kiyo whispers, the double entendre speaking loud and clear. “Take me. Everywhere you go, please take me.”

“How demanding,” he teases between the tender attention placed on his skin. “Really, everywhere?”

“Everywhere. Always. Always, with you, anything with you.”

“You love me,” Rantaro says, and Kiyo nods, heart aching.

“I love you endlessly.”

“That’s a lot of love.”

“I have a lot of love,” Kiyo tells him. He cups Rantaro’s cheeks, and pulls him up over him, pauses only for a moment, asking, “Kiss me?”

“Always,” Rantaro says, leaning down to kiss him, real and steady and warm and true. “Always, always.”

“Again,” Kiyo murmurs, dragging him back down.

“Always,” Rantaro laughs against his mouth, cards fingers through his hair, kisses him again. And again.

“Don’t stop,” He says, feeling himself smile, feeling the mirth shake him. Hand on the back of Rantaro’s neck, thigh pushing up between his legs. “Come here.”

Rantaro grins, plays a game. “_You _come here.”

Kiyo doesn’t protest, how can he, when all he wants to do is lean up and kiss that grin into his own mouth. He takes a fistful of Rantaro’s hair, leans up to meet his lips, kisses him again, again, again.

And Rantaro kisses him back, over and over and over, what feels like it should be a hundred times. A thousand times. Kiyo wants all his kisses from now on, spoilt with the dizziness of longing.

“Keep kissing me,” he urges, already kissed thoroughly, and Rantaro does. The heat of it all. It burns through his body, and he wants to burn, unrestrained, wants that mouth. God, that mouth. Those perfect lips. That perfect tongue.

Rantaro’s hands find the small of his back, holding him close. Kissing him rough, kissing him clean, kissing him messy.

Kiyo shakes with it, feels emotion bursting from his chest.

Pulls away only to say, quietly, “Did you know people can die of loneliness? It’s another hunger, another deprivation of a basic human need, a slow starvation. Isn’t that sad,” he breathes, and Rantaro wordlessly touches their foreheads together, “Infants are especially prone to it. Children need love… it is true. In the 1960s, a psychologist known as Harlow used baby monkeys in a study on love to demonstrate this point.”

“Mm? What did he do with them?”

“The most famous of his experiments used rhesus monkeys, separated from their mothers,” he closes his eyes briefly as Rantaro kisses his brow, “The baby monkeys were given the choice between a soft terry cloth mother with no food, and a wire mother with a bottle. Without the cloth mother, the babies would lose their security… they would scream and cry, curl up into frozen little balls… loneliness is why the infants would rather starve holding onto the soft mother,” he says morosely, “Why they would rather starve than stay with the wire mother, with the appropriate nourishment. We are no different. Human beings will starve without contact, and some will starve even with contact. But how can we help it? We are skin hungry creatures. Like the monkeys, we will always choose to hold softness, even if it hurts.”

“Oh, Kiyo…” Rantaro whispers.

Kiyo smiles gently, slow blinks. Hazy, clouded, soft.

“Ah, I got carried away. Did I upset you?”

“No, no, I…” he rests his palm on Kiyo’s cheek, tucks his hair behind his ear again. “... that’s just such a sad way to die.”

“The inevitability of it, perhaps.” He replies. “Will you kiss me to survive?”

“Who’s the one here surviving,” Rantaro laughs, light as air, nearly just as unnoticeable. “I really hope you don’t die of loneliness with me.”

“I couldn’t, with you.” He kisses him, consumed by the lucid madness of love. Kisses him again. “The world is already dying, and we are already damaged, so if we must live, let us live in love.”

Rantaro kisses him smiling. “You would say it like that.”

“I am not wrong.”

“Yeah, I know,” he agrees easily. “The world is devastating and beautiful at the same time, but at least you’re in it. This is where we begin again, isn’t it?”

“Begin again,” Kiyo chuckles, moved without knowing how to describe it. Only knowing it is true. “Of course. _Of course. _You would say that.”

“We can do anything we want. The world’s dying, it can’t hurt you like it used to,” the soft skin of his wrist touches Kiyo’s cheek, tender as he runs his fingers over the crown of his head. “You don’t need to be afraid. The world is dying but you’re in a better place than you used to be. That’s something.”

“And now there’s you,” he says, drawing a knee back toward himself, folding, the curve of his ankle touching Rantaro’s thigh. He slides his foot across it, his leg curling around Rantaro’s waist, tugging him closer.

Rantaro’s breath hitches, and his body moves with him, his hands catching Kiyo by the shoulders for support, and so Kiyo makes the devilish move of rolling upwards, bumping their hips together but Rantaro doesn’t quite expect it, and he falls. Yelping, crashing straight into Kiyo’s chest; knocking them both into the futon.

Stunned, Kiyo laughs, open and unyielding and feels love. Love coursing through him, only magnified by the _way _Rantaro stares at him, dumbfounded.

“Kiyo, your _laugh,_” he says after a moment of awed silence, perfect mouth splitting into a grin. “Oh my god, your _laugh_.”

“I can’t help it,” he tells him, flooding with warmth. “I- I can’t help it. I don’t know why I’m laughing, but I can’t stop.”

“You’re just,” Rantaro’s fingers slip between them, slips in the space between Kiyo’s legs, where thereupon his laughter breaks for a gasp, and Kiyo’s spine arches, their chests pressing close, “I can’t describe you. You’re really something else.”

“A good thing, I—” Kiyo bites down on the inside of his lip, refusing the whimper as Rantaro’s hand pushes,_ pushes _down on him, over the cusp of his pants. “— I hope.”

“Obviously,” Rantaro replies, voice heady.

“Mm, yes, obviously,” Kiyo echoes. Exhilarated by the whole of him. By his slow, throbbing touch. “To you, perhaps. Oh,” he exhales, desperately, grinding against his hand, “Oh, how do you want me?”

“I want you safe and happy.”

“_Rantaro,”_ Kiyo says, exasperated but fond. He is overflowing with want, and yet all he can do is smile, keep smiling. Safely, happily, in happiness and in safety.

“I do, though,” Rantaro says back, eyes innocent. “The world is such a large and terrifying place. I’ve always been afraid to get close to people, because I lose every person I love, and maybe I’m cursed that way, but it’s different with you. Maybe a little scary, but it’s different. Like I can almost believe I won’t lose you, too.”

“Darling,” Kiyo aches. “You won’t lose me. You don’t have to be afraid. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I used to be so scared,” Rantaro smiles, hand lifting, brushing over the hem of his pants, tantalizing and light. “Thought that if I was a better person, maybe I wouldn’t have ended up alone all the time. If I was kinder. If I was just _better_. You know how it was,” his smile falters only slightly, “I was so alone that I could have disappeared and nobody would have noticed. It would have taken weeks. Months, before anyone noticed, probably. Years.”

_“Rantaro,”_ Kiyo breathes, eyes glazing over. He understands. He understands that with such a fervor that it guts him. Hollows him out. “Rantaro. Don’t.”

“It’s okay,” he whispers, full of feeling. The kind of rawness that leaves a throat after the heart has been spilled out. “It’s not like that anymore.”

Kiyo can’t reply, can’t do anything but fall apart under his hands, his sinking touch, the way he _squeezes, _unafraid and knowing. He is so gorgeous, and that’s even without mentioning the way he watches for a reaction, watches as Kiyo writhes beneath him, a being of craving, a soul of desire begging to be released.

The healing intimacy, the fierce ignition, the burning, the lustrous gaze, the love. _Oh, _the depth of that love.

“Not anymore,” Rantaro says, and isn’t he simply breathtaking. “Now there’s you, and you are beautiful.”


End file.
